


Therapy Can Be Very Helpful

by BlueSkye12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:45:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkye12/pseuds/BlueSkye12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at John's therapy sessions with Ella right after he was discharged.</p>
<p> "John looked at his discharge orders yet again. His chest tightened every time he read it. His military career was over."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**A/N**_ – _In his session with Ella, italics represent John's thoughts and memories. None of these are voiced out loud. John doesn't actually say a whole lot.  
_

John looked at his discharge orders yet again. He had known officially for almost three weeks and unofficially for much longer that he was being declared unfit for duty and would be discharged on 30 November. Retirement the colonel had called it, as he shook John's hand, like it was a good thing. Honourable discharge (medical causes) was what the piece of paper said. John's chest tightened every time he read it. His military career was over. They hadn't even given him the option (not that he wanted it) of a clinical position or even an administrative post. It was all just ... over. John lay the discharge face down before continuing on to the next items in his separation packet, a voucher for MOD subsidized housing and a list of landlords in greater London who supposedly accepted the vouchers. He had circled the sixteenth name on the second page, Kishore Maddipoti. All thirty-three previous names on the list had been duly called and struck off. John was to meet with Mr. Maddipoti today at 11 a.m. and should be prepared to pay the first week's rent plus security deposit in cash. John had googled the address. The building was on the edge of a dodgy neighbourhood and he strongly suspected the "one bedroom efficiency" would be little more than a bedsit. And all for the reduced rate of £190 a week, in advance, utilities and internet not included.

Today was December 2nd. Harry had dutifully, if somewhat grudgingly, offered to collect John from the outpatient housing near Queen's Hospital in Birmingham, even saying he could stay at her place in Camden. John had declined assuring her that his transportation and housing were already set. Instead, he had parted with the £24.70, plus cab fare, and took the train from Brighton to Victoria Station and got a room in a budget tourist hotel. Less than two days into "retirement" and he was already out two hundred quid. At least the room came with unlimited local phone calls. He took the smart phone Harry had given him out of his back pocket. She had called and sent him several texts but he had yet to make a single call on it. Having to accept the phone was bad enough, he would not have his calls going onto Harry's bill. He would get himself some sort of mobile plan this week. Rejoin the 21st century. He had been deployed to Afghanistan for most of the last three and a half years. While there he had relied on e-mail. He wasn't even sure where his trusty old flip phone was? Probably it was in one of boxes he had stored at Harry's. John turned the new phone over in his hand and shook his head. _Clara_. She, much more so than Harry, had been his lifeline during those early weeks at Queen's. She was the one who had always seemed to be there when he woke, the one who had sat with him hours when he could barely move or talk or think straight. Harry had usually headed to the loo or out for a cigarette after about ten minutes in the presence of her gravely ill brother. He thought about Clara's last awkward visit to Birmingham*, on the day after the colonel had informed him of his imminent retirement, and wondered whether he'd ever see her again. His sister was such an idiot.

John placed the housing list aside and turned to the next item in the package, a sheaf of pages explaining his _sliding-scale, early-separation pension with partial (less than 50%) disability compensation_. John did not need his A-level in maths to know that his _age-graduated annuity_ alone would not be enough to live on, especially in London. He scanned his disability designation, less than fifty percent, and thought of the ludicrous list of disability descriptions in that category. Designations to which he had assigned other wounded soldiers without really appreciating the legal and financial connotations. _Loss of vision in one eye where uncorrected sight in other eye is at least 20/100; loss of thumb and/or 2 or more digits on the same hand; permanent reduction in range of motion of one limb involving whole limb or multiple joints in same or different limb; loss of single hand/arm or foot/leg below elbow or knee, such that said elbow or knee was functional._ John's mind flashed to Varick and the IED. He felt the Afghan summer heat and smelled the diesel smoke and heard the three shots†... He all but jumped out of his chair. Shoving the financial statement aside, he staggered until he got his cane under him, a sharp pain shooting through his right leg. He stood in place panting for a few seconds while he regained his control, then he grabbed his coat and headed for the door. He could walk, damn it, and he bloody well would walk. Everyday. He wasn't a cripple, forty-nine percent or otherwise, which was more than Varick could say. Several papers fluttered off the desk as John forcefully swung the door closed behind him. One landed face up on the chair. It was a referral to Dr. Ella Thompson, MBPsS, for psychological services.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Ella Thompson was running late. She had been running late all day. Cursed traffic. She had a new patient at 2 p.m. and usually liked to have at least a half an hour before the first meeting to prepare but, as it was, she was lucky to have half that. She flipped open the folder, another returning veteran. Nearly ten percent of her patients over the last five years were returning soldiers. Although she appreciated the referrals and her success rate was quite good, she always had the same sinking, inadequate feeling upon meeting a new one. Their struggles were often so great and their experiences genuinely horrific. Remembering a favorite saying of her old clinical psych professor, _'one does not need to have had a heart attack to be a cardiologist', s_ he collected her thoughts and began reviewing the file.

This one was different. Most of her ex-military patients were returning enlisted personnel in their early to mid-twenties. This one was older, an officer, a career soldier, and a doctor. A what? Ella reread that bit. A trauma surgeon, wounded by sniper fire while treating casualties from an IED in a forward area. Ella let out a slow breath while she digested this. Then she flipped forward in the file to see the extent of his injuries and his medical outcomes. The man had certainly had a rough go of it. She read through the preliminary evaluation from the staff psychologist at the hospital, _moderate to severe PTSD presenting as nightmares and through persistent somatic complaints, profoundly dissociated and resistant to therapy yet exceptionally aware of and empathetic to the needs of others_. Interesting. In most cases dissociation was a global shut down. The individual unplugged from themselves and from those around them. Maybe his hyper-awareness was because of his medical ... She started slightly at the sound of the intercom interrupting her thoughts and glanced at her watch, 1:59 p.m. Apparently her new patient was also prompt.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John scanned the office as he entered. The room was comfortably furnished, had large windows, tasteful wall hangings and was perfectly round. He enjoyed the novelty of that for a moment before turning his attention to Dr. Ella Thompson. His therapist, a tall attractive black woman, was walking toward him with her hand outstretched.

"Hello, Doctor Watson, I'm Ella Thompson, a pleasure to meet you," she said with cordial professionalism.

John awkwardly shuffled his cane to shake her hand and issued a quiet reply, "John."

Ella smiled reassuringly as she continued. She knew her patients were often ill-at-ease during the first appointment.

"OK, John. Please call me Ella. Have a seat," she indicated the two chairs behind her. John moved to the chair nearest the door but stood next to it until Ella sat in the chair opposite.

Ella's first thought upon seeing John Watson was that she had never met anyone, in or out of uniform, who was so obviously a soldier. He was a bit on the short side, probably not quite as tall as her, but everything about him, his hair cut, his posture, his build, the expression set on his face, absolutely screamed military.

"Thank you," she said as she sat, acknowledging his courtesy. She noticed that after he sat he made direct eye contact. Unlike most of her new patients, he did not seem nervous or anxious. His eyes, which were a rather remarkable dark blue, were set like stone and his face was a neutral, expressionless mask. In fact, he seemed almost defiant. No, that wasn't quite right, or at least not all of it. Determined, that was it. This was difficult for him but he was determined to meet it head on.

"So, John, why are you here?" she opened clasping her hands in front of her. John blinked and looked puzzled.

"I have to. I got shot. It's required," he answered. Ella smiled at the honest, no-nonsense answer. She also noted that John did not seem to have difficulty acknowledging his injury. That was hopeful.

"I'm sorry, let me be more specific. What would you like to address during these sessions?"

He took a breath as if to speak but held it. His jaw clamped tight as he let the breath back out as if to purposely keep any errant words from escaping. He glanced toward the window for a moment. His mind was suddenly racing.

_What did he want? The evaluation was mandatory for all wounded veterans, a minimum of 2 to 4 sessions usually, although there was no upper limit. His original inclination had been to suffer through the required sessions and be done with it. However, while John Watson certainly had a surfeit of pride, he had never been one to fool himself. Things were not going well. How many times had he earnestly recommended to his patients that they make full use of the psychological services?_

He squared his shoulders and took another breath. This time he spoke,

"My leg hurts."

The session progressed slowly. John appeared to be trying but was both stoic and reticent by nature. Ella had to work for each and every response. She tried to get him to expand more on his leg pain, its severity and triggers. She asked if he had any other somatic complaints and had waited through nearly two minutes of silence before he glanced at his left hand and nodded once. She sensed that for each word he spoke whole paragraphs went unsaid. Ella knew implicitly that he was being truthful, but she also knew that each answer he revealed seemed to cost him. She made note of it, _apparent deep-seated trust issues._

"You attach very negative connotations to therapy, don't you?" she stated bluntly after several more minutes. That got his attention. John straightened, his ear tips flushed red and he cleared his throat.

"No, um, no. It's just not something I ... it's just not how I was raised." He sat back into the chair and resumed idly tracing the pattern on the arm of the the chair with his finger.

"OK, fair enough. Let's back up and talk about that, then. Where are your roots?" John looked slightly confused by the sudden change of tack.

"You're not originally from London, are you?" Ella clarified.

"No, I, um, grew up in Essex, um, outside Chelsea actually."

"Any attachments there? Family? Childhood memories?"

_John thought of a picture he had squirreled away in his box. The picture was of Harry and him on a beach in Spain from the only summer holiday the Watson family ever took._ _John remembered his 11 year-old self being happy on that once-in-a-life-time visit to Spain. He and Harry, removed from their normal surroundings, had actually got on for the entire fortnight. Playing on the warm, sun-drenched beach. Exploring nearby villages on bike all by themselves. Successfully ordering ice cream or Coca Cola although neither of them spoke a word of Spanish. It was fun and John had taken it as a sign that everything was going to be OK, that his family would be normal from now on and that the fighting and trouble were all in the past. But, that wonderful holiday turned out to be just another lie. School had barely begun (he'd just started at the King Edward Grammar School, Dad was so proud) when the fighting started again. Mum was drinking, that much John knew, but the rest he hadn't understood at the time. Dad moved out shortly after Christmas and by the time summer holidays came around again Rupert had moved in. By the next Christmas John had learned many things, how to get himself off to school, how to get his own food, how to wash his own clothes, how to block out the chaos and concentrate on his homework, how to duck and how not to cry. Harry, who never did know when to shut up, was Rupert's favorite target but sometimes John couldn't be quiet enough. He never told anyone, though, not Miss Frazer, his favorite teacher, not Mr. Beacham, his rugby coach, not even his Dad. He didn't want to get Mum in trouble. And no one had noticed. Johnny Watson was always quiet. Never a trouble maker. His grades were good, not outstanding, but a boy with his background couldn't be expected to make top marks. Nobody noticed until John ended up in hospital with a concussion, and a broken arm. He and Harry had gone to live with their Dad, Rupert had gone to prison for 6 months, and Mum had cried that she was so sorry. John loved her, he really did, but never trusted her again._

"No. I, ah, haven't been back since I left secondary school," John said without inflection.

"And what about your parents? How is your relationship with your father?" Ella looked up from her notes.

_John knew his dad was a good man. He had worked long hours in a factory job that he hated to support his family. In return, he had had high expectations for his children. There was no room for excuses in the Watson family. That both John and Harry would go to uni was always assumed, a given in his Dad's mind. He made sure John worked hard in school, constantly reminding him that he needed better grades if he was going to get a scholarship. Dad had also encouraged John to play sports, especially rugby, but also told him there was no point in playing unless he was good. Then, when John was 15, Dad got sick. John studied harder and made first fifteen in rugby and Dad went into remission. John was approaching 6th form and Dad encouraged him to go for as many A-levels as he could so John did. Then Dad relapsed so John studied even more, Dad got sicker and John played even harder, 2nd team league all-star. Then Dad had started talking to John about the army. The army could help him pay for uni. If he graduated from university, he would be an officer. Then John planned one beyond Dad. He wouldn't just go to uni, he'd go to medical school. Dad had liked that._

_John's rugby team had made the tournament later that year. Dad came out to the pitch for the big game bundled in his winter coat even though the day was mild. Mr. Beacham hadn't seen Mr. Watson at any games for quite a while. He was shocked by the sight of the man. In fact most of the boys were staring at Watson's dad. Mr. Beacham didn't have to tell them what to do. John played every minute, he carried the ball more than any other player and scored more points than he ever had but the boys on the other side were bigger and more experienced. The team lost. John stayed on the pitch after all the other boys had left. He stood stone faced next to the frail old man who was his dad. Dad was dying and nothing 16 year-old John could do would stop that. He died on a Tuesday one week after John's seventeenth birthday. He had been just 37 years old._

"He's dead," John said flatly. Ella raise her eyebrows inquiring.

"Died when I was 17. Cancer," John explained expression unchanged.

"Oh, I see. And your mother?" John looked off to the side again and was quiet for a beat before answering.

_John had loved his mum. When he was young she read him stories using all sorts of funny voices. She used to take Harry and him to the beach. She had taught them how to swim and how to ride a bike, let them help with the baking in the kitchen and always brought them to the fair each autumn. John's mum had tried her best. She really had but she was young and had never had the chance to learn who she was before she became pregnant at 17, was forced to marry and then became the mother of twins at 18. She had loved her children, and even her husband, at one time, but was ill-equipped to deal with the tedium and isolation that teenage parenthood and marriage brought, especially in the face of her father's crushing disapproval. At first, she only drank to help get herself through the bad days, then she drank to get through every day. Harry and Dad used to get angry when she was drunk. John had just resented it. Then, when he was twelve, everything came apart and Rupert happened._

_After his dad's death, John moved back to live with his mum until the end of the school year. Two weeks after school ended John left for basic training. The army would be sending him to Bart's in the fall, just as he and Dad had planned. He never lived in his mum's house again._

_As John got older he gained more and more empathy for his mum. During his time at Bart's he found himself thinking things like mum never got to go to uni, and at my age (21) Mum couldn't go on all-night pub crawls she had 3-year-old twins at home, and so on. He had tried to visit regularly, to accept the past and move on, to forgive, but he never really managed it. She had let Rupert into their house. And, then, in the end, she had gotten in the car with Steven (her latest boyfriend) that night. John had been deployed to a remote area in Sierra Leone at the time. It had taken two days for the news to reach him and three more days for him to get home, arriving in London just hours before the funeral (Harry had been furious with him). The terrible irony was that while Steven's blood alcohol had been nearly three times over the limit, Mum had be completely sober._

"Died in a car crash, six years ago," he said rotely, his voice remaining even and flat. Ella frowned a bit in sympathy. "My condolences," she said before making another note.

"Siblings?" she prompted.

"Just my sister, she lives up in Camden." Ella nodded.

"Are you close? Is she why you decided to come to London after your discharge?"

_Harry Watson was as loud and brash as John was reserved and guarded. She demanded attention whenever she walked into a room and often behaved badly if she didn't get it. One would have thought, given their difficult home life, that Harry and John would have been close, but that was not the case. They were allies of necessity and little more. To deal with their tumultuous childhood and her own struggles with her sexuality, Harry had adopted and perfected a wild-child persona. Harry did whatever Harry pleased and the world be damned. After rebelling her way through the local comprehensive, she breezed through university despite her crazy life style, then moved on to make a splash in the corporate world. All the while John had dutifully worked his way through Bart's and spent his summers drilling with the army. Always the life of the party, Harry had lived the London club scene to the utmost, often binge drinking entire weekends away. John had worried about her, of course he had, but their relationship was such that she never would have listened so he never bothered to say anything. Besides, he resented her drinking even more than he resented their mum's._

_But then, after years of partying, after Jane and Meaghan and Francis and CeeCee and Rita and Patricia (or was it Patricia then Rita?), Harriet had somehow found Clara. Clara, who was clever and accomplished and pretty and patient and cheeky and strong. John had immediately liked her and had also immediately been jealous. Not in a romantic sense, he had never thought of Clara that way. He was jealous because Harry ... of all people ... flighty, caustic, difficult drunkard, Harry ... had found someone wonderful to love who loved her right back. What the hell was wrong with him? He had never had a relationship that came anywhere close, and he had tried! He had enough trouble just making friends. Jealousy aside, John had always known that his sister didn't deserve Clara and that one day she would hurt her. That day had come and gone while he was in hospital, and he had been unaware. He thought about Clara's last visit and of the phone in his pocket. He was done with Harry for the moment._

"No." John said firmly. Thinking better of it, he tried to soften his response.

"It's just, um, I liked London while I was at Bart's. Thought I could look for a position here ... ah, I mean, eventually." John looked at his shoes and balled his left hand into a tight fist.

"How about other family? Friends?" Ella asked lightly already surmising his response.

"Ah, not really. None in the city, anyway. Most of my regiment is still deployed,"

"So most of your friends are also soldiers?" Ella had clasped her hands in front of her again. She was looking at him awaiting a response. John returned her gaze head on.

_He had been a soldier his entire adult life. Of course his friends were soldiers! He thought of kind Bill Murray and fun-loving Jasmine Singh, of quirky Artie Doyle_ _and finally of fearless and fearsome James Sholto. He remembered having had breakfast with Sholto that morning as was their custom, a last moment of normalcy. Little had either of them known what the day would bring._

"Um, yeah," was what he said. Ella nodded appraisingly before speaking,

"John, I'm not prying aimlessly here. It's important that we identify your available support system. Feelings of isolation are very common among returning veterans, especially those who have seen combat. Many try to translate their war experiences into their new life but can't so they withdraw. It can be a devastatingly lonely period. The most import step in making a successful transition to civilian life is the renewing or developing of connections. Connections to family, to significant others, to friends and to the community at large, that can include employment, as well." Ella noticed that John looked away on the word employment again balling his left hand into a tight fist.

"Eventually," she tacked on gently. He gave her a thin approximation of a smile and she continued. "It takes effort, all the more so in your case, because you've relatively few local connections to start." She paused to gauge his reaction but he gave none. He still wore the same flat, dissociated mask.

"Another important step in the transition is the establishment of new daily patterns and routines. As you well know, military life is replete with regimentation. While many soldiers like to complain about it, most actually find some degree of comfort in the routine and miss it when it is suddenly removed." John gave a single, tight nod in agreement. He, himself, missed everything about being a soldier.

"You mentioned before that you've been making an effort to walk regularly, to strengthen your leg."

John tensed at her mention of his leg but she moved off the subject without judgment or even a pause.

"I would suggest that you not only continue with that but also create other routines and scheduled activities. These can be either physical or intellectual pursuits. For example, journal writing has proven therapeutic benefits. Setting aside time each day to write provides many people with a meaningful way to work through their difficult thoughts." John was far too polite to roll his eyes at this recommendation but he looked highly skeptical nonetheless.

"And since you also need to broaden your base of connections, I think you should try using a more public format. A blog, for example." John's eyes widened. His first overt reaction since walking through the door.

"Sorry, a what?" he spluttered. Ella smiled warmly.

"A blog. There are any number of websites which you can use. Start by simply keeping a record of things that happen to you." Ella closed her notes and stood up signaling the end of the session. "Let's plan on meeting again next Tuesday. Cynthia can schedule it." John stood, nodding, and began moving toward the door. He stopped halfway, pivoting awkwardly on his cane.

"Seriously? You want me to keep a ... a blog?" he questioned, hoping against hope that he'd somehow got it wrong.

"Yes, I think you will find it very beneficial." Ella answered earnestly. John nodded vaguely and left the office.

_/-/-/-/-/-/_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N**_ – _This chapter contains rather graphic descriptions of war and injury. Again, in his sessions with Ella, italics represent John's thoughts and memories. None of these are voiced out loud._

John had thought the previous week had been boring but at least he had had a list of tasks, like finding a flat and setting up bank accounts, that needed doing. His first appointment with Ella had been the last thing on that week's to-do list. This week John literally had had nothing to do. What had Ella said last week about feeling of isolation and loneliness? Check the box for those. He could not remember another time in his life when he had been so idle, so bored or so utterly alone. He had put himself on a schedule as much by nature as by Ella's suggestion. He woke early, did his PT exercises, read the papers, walked and practised his handwriting, but the days were still endless and the nights were even longer.

_The second session ..._

"So, John, how was your week?" Ella began directly after John had seated himself. He regarded her for a moment before answering, his stone mask firmly in place.

_Endless, tedious and gray._

John gave a small gesture with his hand, "Um, fine."

Ella raised her eyebrows, an expression John would soon come to hate. No other tool in her arsenal, no word or action, was as piercing or insightful as Ella Thompson's raised eyebrows.

"Really?" she said mildly, skeptical. She waited a beat for elaboration but none was forthcoming.

"Were you able to get started on your blog?"

_It had taken him less than an hour to choose a blogging website and set up his profile but he had nothing to post, not a single bloody thing. The highlight of his week had been getting a haircut. The low-light was smashing a jar of jam on the floor of Tesco because his hand had started to shake and he couldn't maintain his grip. Neither were particularly post-worthy._

"Yeah. I mean, I set it up." John answered truthfully. Ella nodded.

"Good, good. Remember, your posts needn't be anything grand. Just jot down things that happen to you as a start." She asked for and made note of the blog's URL.

"Anything else?" she encouraged looking up from her notes. John returned her gaze. His mouth twitched in an attempted smile but he said nothing.

Ella Thompson had spent her career getting people to talk. She knew all the types. There were those who talked freely and vociferously at the slightest provocation. There were those who were reticent to start but once she hit upon the right question or topic they opened up like flood gates. Then there were those who interleaved periods of quiet reluctance with periods of angry or teary outbursts. Finally, there were the John Watsons, patients who never revealed more than asked and who never lost control. They were the most challenging and, often, the most at risk, like the man across from her now.

"How is you physical health?"

"Fine. Good."

"So, you're fully recovered? No outstanding treatments, then?"

_John's first memory as he slowly awoke from the anesthesia after the third surgery was the pins and needles sensation spreading down his left arm and out through his fingers. No, that wasn't right. The surgery was supposed to fix that. It must be the post-operative swelling that's still causing some impingement. It would get better. But it didn't and it wouldn't. Later that afternoon both Norman Zu, the orthopedic surgeon, and Celeste Parker, a neurologist, came to his room. His current roommate, a 23-year old lieutenant, with moderate traumatic brain injury, had just been taken down for another CAT scan. An ice-cold lump formed in the pit of John's stomach when Celeste turned and closed the door. Norman dropped casually into the visitor's chair and leaned forward a bit._

" _Well, John, we removed the floating bone chips, eight in all, and repaired the coracoclavicular ligament like we discussed. That should reduce the discomfort and free up your range of motion a bit," he began in his no-nonsense style._

" _But?" John had said softly in to the space not really wanting to hear the answer._

" _As Norman said, your range of motion should improve and be quite good, actually. But, there was no impingement on the axilla as we thought, nothing to relieve," Celeste continued. John recognized that she was dropping in to professional bad-news mode._

" _Fortunately, as you know, none of the three cords* were severed. Amazing that, really, given the state of your clavicle. But, the posterior cord is visibly damaged." The cold lump in John's stomach fell through the floor._

" _I'm sorry, John, but I don't think there is anything more that can be done."_

"No," John said succinctly. Ella wasn't completely sure which question he had answered but suspected, perhaps, both. She decided to let it pass for now.

"Medications?" she asked.

"Carisoprodol and lidocaine plasters." John replied his voice flat. Ella made note of medications. Pain, both real and psychosomatic, was often a positive indicator for depression.

"How is the pain?"

"It's OK. It's just the leg most days and that's ... I don't take the Carisoma for that," John answered.

"On a scale of 1 to 10 what's your pain level at right now?" Ella inquired. John paused, again reluctant, but he needed to address this. This was why he was here.

"While sitting here? A three." He shifted in his chair.

"Point to the pain." Ella said. John cleared his throat and shifted again..

"There's nothing wrong. I know it. I do. I try ..."

"John, where does it hurt?" her voice was calm but insistent. John reached down and rubbed his right leg just above the knee.

"Is that the site of injury?" she pointed with a pen to where John's hand still kneaded his leg.

"Hyper flexation, a tear in the patellar tendon, fixed arthroscopically. It's fine, completely healed." John said without inflection. He forced himself to sit straighter in his chair and return his hand to the arm rest.

"How did it happen?" she continued. John felt irrational embarrassment rising, coloring his face and the tips of his ears. Why was she pressing this? He bloody well knew the leg was physically fine. That wasn't the problem here.

"I fell on it, just landed funny. That's all. It's nothing. I ..."

"When you were shot," Ella interrupted her voice even but firm.

John stilled. He felt his muscles tense and his breath quicken.

"What?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"You fell on it, landing funny, causing an injury which required surgery when you were shot. Is that correct?" she cocked her head to the side slightly awaiting a response. John blinked rapidly three times. One blink for each shot that echoed distantly in his head.

_If asked, John would have described being shot exactly as most people describe traumatic injury, a sudden explosion of pain which registered in his brain as a blinding, white-hot flash. That was his overwhelming impression. Yet, in the dark of the night, when he allowed himself to think further about it, he could also recall each instant separately and distinctly. He could actually remember his surprise at the bullet punching through his scapula and feel its spiraling trajectory through the soft tissue of his shoulder. This then culminated in the agonizing shattering of his clavicle before the round ripped its way out of his body only to be stopped by the inside surface of his body armour. Irony, that. Underneath all of this, however, was the pain of his right knee flexing unnaturally and his tendon tearing as he was unable to stop his awkward, twisting face-plant into the dirt._

John cleared his throat before answering, "Yes."

"That is not nothing," Ella said bluntly. John blinked again and looked away.

"John, you're a doctor, I don't have to tell you that pain is a funny thing. It's a serves as both a warning and a reminder. And it's notoriously imprecise, especially in the case of severe trauma. The mind and body are not nearly as compartmentalized and separate as people like think. The pain is real because the experience was real."

John paused unsure how to react to this affirmation.

"Yeah, but it's healed now. I know it is. There's no reason ..." he began gesturing to his knee.

"It. Happened." Ella interrupted again. John looked down briefly before forcing himself to look back up.

"Don't we have this the wrong way 'round? Aren't _you_ supposed to be telling _me_ it's all my head?" John quipped causing Ella to smile. She pulled out her best line.

"Of _course_ it is in _your head_ , but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"** she quoted ruefully. John's eyes narrowed in confusion then quickly widened in recognition. He chuckled and cracked a small but genuine smile. Ella was struck by how the smile transformed his face. Seeing this glimpse of what she assumed was his normal, warm visage made his current dissociated despondence seem all the more unnatural and wrong.

"Our minds tend to get stuck, John, living in memory and continuously drawing us back to the moment of trauma. They will continue to do so until new thoughts, new patterns of memory supplant the old. Staying in the present, living in the present, and not at the moment of trauma is essential if we're to move past the event. That's another reason for keeping the blog. It will help keep your mind in the present by focusing on what is happening to you now." Ella looked earnestly at her patient but John had reasserted his flat stone mask. He made no outward acknowledgment. She wondered if her words were having any effect.

John worked his jaw. All he had was memories. Part of him wanted to scream but he had been a soldier for much to long to give in to that sort of nonsense. His expression remained outwardly unchanged. He knew that Ella was honestly trying to help and that she believed what she said. It also felt surprisingly good, better than he would ever admit, to hear someone, a professional therapist no less, acknowledge his pain. The doctors and physio therapists at Queen's Hospital had been great. They were skilled and tough and had pushed him hard. He knew that he owed both his life and his high degree of function to them, but they had also had been very blunt and dismissive about what they termed his "phantom" ailments. He truly appreciated Ella's acceptance. He understood her line of reasoning about developing new patterns of thought, too, he really did. However, he also recognized the fundamental flaw in her logic.

_Nothing was happening to him now._

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N --
> 
> * According to my Googling there are 3 major cords of nerves that cross the shoulder.
> 
> ** This is a paraphrasing of Dumbledore's statement to Harry near the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling. "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N**_ – _As in previous chapters, italics represent John's thoughts and memories. They aren't voiced aloud._

As John passed another endlessly dull week he found himself actually looking forward to his session with Ella. Stupid blog idea aside, he thought she was pretty good, and that she may even be able to help him. He stretched his aching leg. God, did he need some help. Even the stupid blog wasn't a bad suggestion, really, just not the right one for him. Such was the state of his life that this week's highlight had been getting a wrong number call from a chatty, daft old woman looking for Herbert. Hardly the stuff of internet legends.

/-/-/-/-/-/

_From the third session_

John gave Ella a shy, polite half-smile when he entered the room and waited for her to be seated before sitting himself. As usual, he offered nothing but waited for her to start the session. It was only their third meeting but Ella could sense his growing frustration. She began to inwardly wondered whether he would bolt after the next session, the final mandatory meeting. No, she decided, John Watson would not bolt. He would simply disappear.

"How's your blog going?" she asked trying for a tone of lightness. John's stone mask remained unchanged.

"Ah, good. Very good," he lied after a beat while idly tracing the pattern on the arm of the chair again.

"You haven't written a word, have you?" she needed for him to be honest with her.

"You wrote 'still has trust issues'," he said flatly.

"And you read my writing upside down ... See what I mean?" she couldn't let him dodge this.

He cracked an attempted smile but despondency continued to radiate from him. She clasped her hands and captured his gaze.

"John, you're a soldier. It's going to take some time for you to adjust to civilian life. And keeping a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help." Ella was surprised by how much she was hoping that he would trust her counsel.

John's expression remained flat and impassive as he delivered his frank reply.

"Nothing happens to me." There, he'd said it.

Ella exhaled slowly, schooling her face.

"OK, let's examine that. What are your expectations?" she asked. John wrinkled his brow in confusion and Ella clarified.

"For yourself, for your life now? What are you expecting to happen?"

John stared at her, brows still furrowed, for a long moment.

_He remembers arriving at basic training like it was yesterday. From the moment he had arrived, he knew his and Dad's decision had been the right one. He was a soldier. He knew he could and would do whatever was asked of him. This went beyond Queen and Country. He was meant to do this, to dedicate himself to something better, something greater than the wants of one kid from Essex. The same feeling had settled in him while he was at Bart's. He fit there. He was there for a reason and his days had purpose._

_His first posting abroad had been to Kosovo for three months in the summer of 1999. He had worked in a KFOR* medical tent treating local civilians and refugees, and although their needs sometimes seemed overwhelming he knew he was helping and making a difference. He also discovered he loved the excitement and element of danger that being in the middle of a war zone brought. That feeling of duty and purpose (and raw unabashed adrenal rush) accompanied him on all his postings, from Sierra Leone to Afghanistan to Iraq and back to Afghanistan. He was never an ideologue. That was for Parliament. He was there to serve and to do a job he loved._

"I don't have ... I mean, I don't know," he finally said with a slightly baffled note to his voice.

Ella waited silently willing for him to go on. Instead, John cleared his throat and sat straighter in his chair, reasserting his flat, dissociated mask. All the while, his left hand tightened its grip of the chair arm until his knuckles were almost white.

"I never planned ... for this," he said plainly in an even, calm voice.

Ella's response was at once kind and sincere, firm and challenging. Part of John's brain was distracted wondering how the hell she did that.

"I know, John. I know. But, that doesn't mean there isn't a new or different way forward for you."

Ella waited again but John gave no outward reaction so she pressed on.

"Have you considered joining an organization?" she asked. "Maybe veteran's organization or perhaps a social or civic group?" John looked slightly aghast. She smiled, reminding herself that John Watson was not accustomed to the ordinary, and amended her question. Challenge replaced empathy.

"Come now, John, you hardly seem a homebody. That's part of the problem now. You're bored. What did you do with yourself before you were sent abroad?"

"Well, I played rugby," John answered. "I was on a team, actually." He cracked a fleeting but genuine smile. Ella smiled broadly in return and gave him a 'there your go' gesture.

_It was pouring rain in buckets. It had been all afternoon. The game was tied with less than 2 minutes to go and they were in range. If they could just set Stefan up for the drop goal, they'd win. Tom clapped him on the shoulder with a smile, "Ready, Army?" he asked. John flexed his bruised and bleeding knee, wiped the rain and mud from his face with an equally muddy hand, and nodded once before getting into position for the line out++. The referee signaled and the ball came sailing back in to play, John's team mates thrust him straight up in the air. He reached as high as he could, just managing to get his taped fingers on the ball, and tipped it toward Stefan. God, he loved this._

"I don't think I'm quite up to rugby now," John said quietly, rubbing his leg just above the knee.

"And those old rugby mates will only talk to you if you can join the scrum, will they?" Ella challenged again with the barest hint of exasperation in her voice.

"You need to try to reach out, John. Be proactive and open to trying new things." John nodded thoughtfully and was quiet for a long beat, his expression inscrutable.

"Maybe some dancing lessons?" he finally offered, sardonically. Ella laughed despite herself. She liked John Watson.

_/-/-/-/-/-/_

That afternoon, John navigated to his blog's website prepared to spend another eternity staring at the blinking cursor in an empty post window. Instead, when he arrived at the page he saw that the hit counter now read (3) and that he had a comment. He clicked on the unread comment. It was from Bill Murray. He said that he was coming to London next month and invited John for a pint. John smiled then felt a pang of guilt. Bill had e-mailed him a number of times while he was at Queen Elizabeth's up in Birmingham but John had only ever sent the briefest of replies. _Connections._ With Ella's words ringing in his ears, John opened his e-mail app and sent a reply.

Bill had replied back within a few hours and they were set to meet in four weeks' time. Bill, who was living in Aberdeen again, asked how John was making out and said he had some news but wouldn't part with it. The next evening John clicked open his address book and stared at the small collection of names for fifteen minutes before sending a quick e-mail to Stefan from Blackheath saying he was back in London. He didn't elaborate as to why. By the next afternoon he had received responses from both Stefan and his old team captain, Tom, along with an invitation to meet with the lads at the usual place after their next home match. Not one, but two social engagements planned in the same week. Take that, Ella.

/-/-/-/-/-/

A doctor and a soldier walked into a bar. He took a seat with his back to the wall and a view of the telly, and leaned his cane against the chair. The pub was called The Black Horse. John had discovered during his daily walks that this pub, some 10 minutes from his bedsit, was the closest establishment into which he would even consider entering. He couldn't bear another night shut in his horrid little flat so he decided to venture out for a pint and, maybe, to watch the match. The waitress wasn't his type but she was young and friendly. They chatted back and forth a bit as she took his order for whatever lager they had on tap and some chips. John smiled winningly at her when she brought his order and she blushed a little. He ended up having just the one pint as the game turned out to be a disappointment. The waitress called after him with a smile as he stood to leave. John wished her good night and, it being December 22nd, a Happy Christmas. He didn't see the pity cross her face as she watched his limping exit.

/-/-/-/-/-/

He wasn't meeting with Ella again for two weeks, not until after the holidays. Despite having plans with Bill and the Blackheath lot, and his successful pub visit, John felt his sense of isolation and solitude growing day by endless day. _Tis the season_ he supposed. Although lots of servicemen and women found being deployed over the holidays difficult, John never really minded. There was a certain camaraderie in holidays spent abroad that gave him a sense of belonging that spending all day with his difficult family never could match.

Harry called again the next day to ask if he would come over to her place for Christmas dinner. Against his resolve and better judgment he relented. That was how at 1:40 p.m. Christmas Day John found himself in the back of a cab that he could ill-afford with a bunch of flowers and strudel from the bakery. This would be the first time in six years that John had gone to Harry's on Christmas. The last time had been the Christmas after their mum had died. Harry had sworn off alcohol in the wake of the accident and was in a foul mood but Clara had been able to keep the day from being a total disaster. They had given him the Aran Island jumper that he wore today. It was still in good nick as it hadn't seen much wear over the last three and a half years.

Harry had a glass of wine in her hand, a large glass John noted, when she answered the door. She ushered him into what he thought of as Harry and Clara's well-appointed townhouse and introduced him to Sheila. John found himself wanting to dislike the woman on principle before she even opened her mouth. As it was, when she did open her mouth, she gave John more than ample reason to follow through on his first instinct. Three other couples, Barbara and Gail, Garrett and Lindsey, and Todd and Anna, arrived shortly after John. All wore their holiday best and John felt under dressed in his jeans and jumper. He made some polite small talk while they waited for dinner to be served. Wine was flowing freely, although he had just one glass. Mostly, he let the conversation float around him without joining in. Harry chided him for being a stick-in-the-mud. As dinner progressed and the wine bottles emptied the conversation became more and more raucous.

"Terry and Mitch were _arrested_ , remember, after we'd got to Trafalgar Square**," Gail said with a snort of laughter. "Both got ASBOs or some silly thing, didn't they?"

"So what do you think, John, bloody futile, the whole bloody business, isn't it," Todd called abruptly turning to face John who was sitting at the opposite end of the table.

"I'm sorry, what?" John sputtered, ears flushing red. He had been surreptitiously watching Harry drain her third large glass of wine.

"Lighten up, Todd, my brother was born a patriot. Barbs, be a love and past the Merlot," Harry interceded.

"But he was _there_. He knows truth. People need to hear it." Todd jabbed the table forcefully with two fingers for emphasis.

John looked up and quickly scanned table. It was barely 4 pm and they were all at least half tanked. Anna and Gail were giggling about something. Todd was staring at him expectantly as was Lindsey. Harry, he knew, was being watchful of him. Well, as watchful as she could be while drinking. Barbara spoke expansively to the table as she handed the half-empty bottle of wine to Harry.

"When do think Brown will grow a pair and pull our boys ..."

"And girls!" Sheila chimed in slapping the table sharply.

"Right, and girls, out of there?" Barbara continued.

No one waited for an answer. Instead, everyone began talking all at once. John could not begin to follow any of it. He sat disconnected and alone at the crowded table. People were talking to him, at him, about him, around him, over him, and through him all without seeming to notice that he was actually there. He felt his anger rising. These people knew nothing. They understood _nothing_.

"Excuse me, Harry ..." he finally said. talking into a lull in the babble.

"I ... can't ... do this," he placed his napkin on the table and stood taking a small stutter step as he reached for his cane. The table quieted and watched as he began crossing the room. After an awkward pregnant pause Harry spoke up,

"Jesus, Johnny, doh'n be so bloody mel-o-dra-mat-ic..." she drawled before pausing to take a sip.

"Stay. Finish your dinner and have some pudding. This lot's nothing but a bunch of raving intellectual twats. Ignore them," she said teasingly trying to lighten the mood. "It's not like they're talking about you personally," she continued dismissively.

John whipped around to face his sister suddenly furious but words failed him. Instead, he glared at her, jaw clenched, left fist in a tight ball. In her inebriated state, he knew it was pointless to get angry or to argue with her. Instead, without further ado, John nodded once to the table, turned on his heel and headed wordlessly for the door.

"See, this the price _they_ pay. Bloody _waste_ , if you ask me," Todd said emphatically, as if John's departure was simply a talking point in his argument. John paused, straightening monetarily before putting on his coat. The last thing he heard before the door closed behind him was his drunken sister's voice,

"Yeah, well, nobody bloody asked you, _Todd!_ "

The spell broken, the table erupted in laughter and Sheila rose to get another bottle of wine from the kitchen. Harry went to the front window. Peering around the corner of the curtain she watched John limp away. She emptied her glass. Todd was right, her maudlin, wine-soaked brain supplied. The war had ruined her brother.

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Sorry, sorry, SORRY for the long delay between chapters. This was really hard to get right and I'm still not sure I like it. Comments and criticisms are eagerly sought.
> 
> * KFOR was the NATO-lead peace keeping force in Kosovo.
> 
> I don't know much about rugby. I think line out is the play where the ball come packing to play and teams lift a player up to try to reach it. I figured, given his size, that John would be a likely candidate.
> 
> ** According to my Googling, there was a large protest against the war in Afghanistan in London in October 2009.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked. I own nothing but Harry's drunken dinner guest, and they aren't even nice people.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N – This story will be a prequel (of sorts) to my story Adjusting. It started out as a chapter for that story and just kept growing so I split it off. Hopefully it will work out.


End file.
